I taught myself to live simply and wisely,
to look at the sky and pray to God,
and to wander long before evening
to tire my superfluous worries.
When the burdocks rustle in the ravine
and the yellow-red rowanberry cluster droops
I compose happy verses
about life's decay, decay and beauty.
I come back. The fluffy cat
licks my palm, purrs so sweetly
and the fire flares bright
on the saw-mill turret by the lake.
Only the cry of a stork landing on the roof
occasionally breaks the silence.

You are tired,
(I think)
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;
And so am I.

Come with me, then,
And we'll leave it far and far away—
(Only you and I, understand!)

You have played,
(I think)
And broke the toys you were fondest of,
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break, and—
Just tired.
So am I.

But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,
And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart—
Open to me!
For I will show you the places Nobody knows,
And, if you like,
The perfect places of Sleep.

Ah, come with me!
I'll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,
That floats forever and a day;
I'll sing you the jacinth song
Of the probable stars;
I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream,
Until I find the Only Flower,
Which shall keep (I think) your little heart
While the moon comes out of the sea.

If some of ya'll never been down South too much...
I'm gonna tell you a little bit about this, so that you'll understand
What I'm talking about
Down there we have a plant that grows out in the
woods and the fields,
looks somethin' like a turnip green.
Everybody calls it Polk salad. Polk salad.
Used to know a girl that lived down there and
she'd go out in the evenings and pick a mess of it...
Carry it home and cook it for supper, 'cause that's about all they had to eat,
But they did all right.

Down in Louisiana Where the alligators grow so mean
There lived a girl that I swear to the world Made the alligators look tame

Polk salad Annie polk salad Annie
Everybody said it was a shame
Cause her mama was working on the chain-gang
(a mean, vicious woman)

Everyday 'fore supper time She'd go down by the truck patch
And pick her a mess o' Polk salad And carry it home in a tote sack

Polk salad Annie 'Gators got you granny
Everybody said it was a shame
'Cause her mama was aworkin' on the chain-gang
(a wretched, spiteful, straight-razor totin' woman,
Lord have mercy. Pick a mess of it)

Her daddy was lazy and no count
Claimed he had a bad back
All her brothers were fit for was stealin' watermelons out of my truck patch
Polk salad Annie, the gators got your granny
Everybody said it was a shame
Cause her mama was a working' on the chain gang
(Sock a little polk salad to me, you know I need a mess of it.

Tony Joe White-

it dosen't matter to me what a man dose for a living you understand..
as long as his interest's don't conflict with mine.

These poems come to mind this time of year as we observe Remembrance Day (US Veterans day) on Nov. 11

Lest we forget.

"High Flight"

John Gillespie Magee Jr.

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air....

Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace.
Where never lark, or even eagle flew —
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
- Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

"Flanders Fields"

John McRae

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

nobody can save you but
yourself.
you will be put again and again
into nearly impossible
situations.
they will attempt again and again
through subterfuge, guise and
force
to make you submit, quit and/or die quietly
inside.

nobody can save you but
yourself
and it will be easy enough to fail
so very easily
but don't, don't, don't.
just watch them.
listen to them.
do you want to be like that?
a faceless, mindless, heartless
being?
do you want to experience
death before death?

nobody can save you but
yourself
and you're worth saving.
it's a war not easily won
but if anything is worth winning then
this is it.

A poem about you would begin with a tiger, a cobra,
a salami sandwich, it would contain
taxonomic terms for woody plants: sessile, catkin,
schizocarp, dehiscent, involucre, whorl;
it would cruise rue Saint-Martin and pick up chicks
at the Musée de l'Orangerie between marble busts
of Etruscan warriors, a poem about you
would go everywhere, and never arrive.

It would list a series of phobias:
ailurophobia fear of cats
erythrophobia fear of red
nostophobia fear of returning home
It would indulge in hyperbole: you are as exotic
as an ocelot, or the merge of an abacuswith a hummingbird—a moving scale of song.

A poem about you would include an obituary,
Compiègne, Havana, rumba, tango,plums, the language of pain which has no letters,
only cells and vortexes; however, a poem about pain
would not be a poem about you.

It would speak of the heart though,
not as symbol but as organ and orator
of the body's blood. Its hollow muscularity
and conical shape, obliquely placed,
its vena cava and auriculo-ventricular groove;
endocardium, myocardium, pericardium.

A poem about you would switch subjects
suddenly and lilt word duets: creeper vine,
adder's tongue. It would contemplate
the prepositional phrase and carry the glare of stars
beneath the innuendoes of trees. It would abound
with women: Madeleine, Yvonne, Youki.

A poem about you would tell a story about a girl
who might one night while steeping tea, spilled
honey on a book and discovered you.
In the end every poem is drenched
with honey and history and so the girl
leaned near the window with violet light
falling through like liquid and wrote a poem
to you called
Crepuscule
A hummingbird quivers near my ear:
wind singed with sumac, the dusky
sibilance of your name: Desnos,
Desnos. Sky thick with cumulonimbus and
the whining of blue jays. How odd
to never hold the heft of you
knowing already your absence, like echo
and snow, but to think of this
is to sink into a subterranean landscape
of crows and curses. Permit me
the traffic of a broken heart.
Blue slate of this day stains
my dress, but the rain's veneer is beautiful
and contains the language of lost causes.Such lassitude in this wet darkness—lamps
locate bodies like pearls
rolling across a dresser. Light
diffracts through my glasses in the rain—
a microscopic slide of amoeba
that glitters in my periphery. Every word spoken
is a city sunk beneat a verdigris sea.
My heart is full of seaplants smelling
like lead and laundry.
Wet bark skimming my spine while
rivulets write your words upon my bodice:
J'ai tant rêvé de toi que tu perds ta réalité.

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh.
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard.
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred.
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked.
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s red-lipped daughter.
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”

He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.

PART TWO

He did not come in the dawning. He did not come at noon;
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord. They drank his ale instead.
But they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest.
They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast!
“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest.
Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love’s refrain.

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The red coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still.

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light.
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

He turned. He spurred to the west; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, and his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shouting a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high.
Blood red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat;
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.

. . .

And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard.
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred.
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Clouds are floating by
Clouds of grey and white
Clouds where light lies on
I can believe of the clouds

Clouds are floating by
Clouds of slowly traveling by
Clouds of grey and grey
I must believe of the clouds

I look, I look at it
I look at the clouds and see
I start to look like the clouds
I am floating like a clouds Heaven knows where

Post edited by Aafke on February 2014

"The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed".- Carl Jung.
"Art does not reproduce what we see; rather, it makes us see."- Paul Klee

I saw her once, one little while, and then no more:
’Twas Eden’s light on Earth a while, and then no more.
Amid the throng she passed along the meadow-floor:
Spring seemed to smile on Earth awhile, and then no more;
But whence she came, which way she went, what garb she wore
I noted not; I gazed a while, and then no more!

I saw her once, one little while, and then no more:
’Twas Paradise on Earth a while, and then no more.
Ah! what avail my vigils pale, my magic lore?
She shone before mine eyes awhile, and then no more.
The shallop of my peace is wrecked on Beauty’s shore.
Near Hope’s fair isle it rode awhile, and then no more!

I saw her once, one little while, and then no more:
Earth looked like Heaven a little while, and then no more.
Her presence thrilled and lighted to its inner core
My desert breast a little while, and then no more.
So may, perchance, a meteor glance at midnight o’er
Some ruined pile a little while, and then no more!

I saw her once, one little while, and then no more:
The earth was Peri-land awhile, and then no more.
Oh, might I see but once again, as once before,
Through chance or wile, that shape awhile, and then no more!
Death soon would heal my griefs! This heart, now sad and sore,
Would beat anew a little while, and then no more.

"It's not the daily increase but daily decrease. Hack away at the unessential." - Bruce Lee

"Don't ride on me man, ride with me" - Byrnzie on LSD

"Ed Vedder? He sounds like the song of the North West sung by Chief Broom in the body of R.P McMurphy." - Byrnzie

My dream was one of fantasy
with no purpose
or fear,
I raced from one idea
to another,
passing over strange landscapes,
never having to stop
and become involved.
I neither took or gave.
It was a journey of pure pleasure.
My beliefs and my history
were left behind.
I felt no obligation to them
or that I had to bring them
or explain why I left them behind.

But when I awoke,
I was surprised how empty I felt.
something was missing...
I slowly looked behind me,
as though I could look
back into my dream.
I saw no light
or silver clouds.

Only a dark tunnel
stared back at me,
cold, stone-like.
Suddenly I saw something
moving.

It was rolling,
slowly, side to side,
deep in the black hole.
To my horror,
I watched
as this alien figure
tried desperately
to pull itself along,
only to continuously slide back.
Its face, its pain;
It stared right at me
freezing my very soul.

I tore myself from my bed
and raced outside,
hoping my nightmare
would not follow me.

The Sun was bright
and warm
and quickly calmed my racing heart.
I slowly walked away
from the house...
Just to walk

A large bird
flew over my field,
passing over my head
and my eyes followed its shadow
across the grass.

I stopped!
My eyes stared at the ground,
at my feet.
I slowly looked behind me,
then my right side,
my left side.
I looked at a small tree
in front of me.
Its shadow was strong.

I looked back at my feet.
I had no shadow!
Then slowly I looked behind me, at the house...
back at my dream.

The Serpents come to you
as groping hands,
reaching out
in the night
to tap your soul,
in an attempt to lure
your spirit
into the running river.

You wait a lifetime
to escape this dream.
To ease your fear.
But nights come and go
in the blink of an eye.
You soon
lose your way,
forgetting your real purpose and drift away.
into someone else's
reality.

While it is not my favorite of his poems, it is his most known poem, so in honor of Robert Frost's birthday today:

The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,And sorry I could not travel bothAnd be one traveler, long I stoodAnd looked down one as far as I couldTo where it bent in the undergrowth;Then took the other, as just as fair,And having perhaps the better claim,Because it was grassy and wanted wear;Though as for that the passing thereHad worn them really about the same,And both that morning equally layIn leaves no step had trodden black.Oh, I kept the first for another day!Yet knowing how way leads on to way,I doubted if I should ever come back.I shall be telling this with a sighSomewhere ages and ages hence:Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-I took the one less traveled by,And that has made all the difference.

The snake force of depression, if you look at it with total awareness, the places inside where it bumps up & hurts, thru awareness & total acceptance of that sensation, it clears a pathway & opens up space in you for m0re light, openness & awareness The snake is a gift to open you up from the inside. to work with you, to raise your energy. It moves around to make more space

Return was a myth departure coined as incentive: we didn't believe it, bracken and twig, but moved ahead anyway. Negotiating winter's frisk and what remained of its pane, worn away by powerlines and barns the rain brought down, we kept to where the sun revamped its reach: upholstered clouds and amassings of geese, making their exodus vocal, mountains that seemed to change their position, ruptures in the road the crews ignored, before defaulting to some other damage control. It would not have been false to conjure transparency or zero, to coax the sight of scaffolds ghosting white lines, ilex, tea tree, birch. The metabolism of snowshoe and compass: nothing could stall it or usher it onward, not when it had already been stated, and called us so we came.

12

Asleep on the shattered surface of a cinematic, lunar creek, one of us dreamt the silhouette of a dog, yet found upon waking it hadn't strayed. Such were the spells of a landscape that couldn't be trusted although we devised it ourselves, if only to attribute otherwise: a zone where no one believed any longer the hollows that brought them this far, where flowers were blooming again, without any scent.

You are young. So you know everything. You leap
into the boat and begin rowing. But, listen to me.
Without fanfare, without embarrassment, without
any doubt, I talk directly to your soul. Listen to me.
Lift the oars from the water, let your arms rest, and
your heart, and heart’s little intelligence, and listen to
me. There is life without love. It is not worth a bent
penny, or a scuffed shoe. It is not worth the body of a
dead dog nine days unburied. When you hear, a mile
away and still out of sight, the churn of the water
as it begins to swirl and roil, fretting around the
sharp rocks—when you hear that unmistakable
pounding—when you feel the mist on your mouth
and sense ahead the embattlement, the long falls
plunging and steaming—then row, row for your life
toward it.

I posted this in 2012, but Mary Oliver past away this week, and I keep thinking of this poem.

There is no such thing as leftover pizza. There is now pizza and later pizza. - anonymousThe risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird

You are young. So you know everything. You leap
into the boat and begin rowing. But, listen to me.
Without fanfare, without embarrassment, without
any doubt, I talk directly to your soul. Listen to me.
Lift the oars from the water, let your arms rest, and
your heart, and heart’s little intelligence, and listen to
me. There is life without love. It is not worth a bent
penny, or a scuffed shoe. It is not worth the body of a
dead dog nine days unburied. When you hear, a mile
away and still out of sight, the churn of the water
as it begins to swirl and roil, fretting around the
sharp rocks—when you hear that unmistakable
pounding—when you feel the mist on your mouth
and sense ahead the embattlement, the long falls
plunging and steaming—then row, row for your life
toward it.

I posted this in 2012, but Mary Oliver past away this week, and I keep thinking of this poem.

I heard about that as well. What a great poet and essayist. Sad to hear of her passing.

“Finding beauty in a broken world is creating beauty in the world we find.”